


Deadtime Jingle

by IntravenousDollhouse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chubstuck, Horror, Kink Fiction, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Vomit, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntravenousDollhouse/pseuds/IntravenousDollhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave’s first step on the road to sexual maturity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadtime Jingle

**Author's Note:**

> The pairing is *one-sided* Dave/John. It's also a bit different since this is a horror fic. : ) Includes gore, vomit, weight-gain, and mild sex (handjob). If that's not your thing, now's your chance to click the back button.

You are a young child experiencing your first vivid nightmare.

The alluring spell of an ice-cream truck’s generated music wraps your tiny body in a sweet and promising embrace. There’s little you can do to prevent yourself from following it further and further away from home. You’re hopelessly lost less than a dream-minute later, but of course you don’t really notice -- too bewitched by the jaunty tune to fully observe your surroundings.

You do however notice the path in front of you, as it leads to the ice-cream truck; your ultimate goal. You are dauntless -- fueled by an absurd desire. It’s strange, because in your waking life, you don’t much care for ice-cream. It’s okay. Nothing to go crazy over.

In the dream, you’re a little bit crazy.

There is pink snow falling from a candy-apple sky. If you were of a mind to look up, you’d see pulsing carmine clouds; thick and gooey, with fleshy ropes of some foreign substance wound within. The landscape inside your dreaming brain is contorting -- attempting to warn you. That’s what’s so amazing about the human subconscious; how it holds on to primal instincts and weaves images and stories with the information it gleans. It’s something you learn more about later in life.

It never takes you long to reach the truck -- just enough to test your juvenile energy. Even in dreams, you’re capable of becoming exhausted. Your undeveloped limbs quiver like flan as you approach the window. The driver always looks like bro -- but it can’t be bro. Your brother doesn’t have quite so many teeth -- and they’re not as sharp. His eyes aren’t a watery shade of melon-green, and of course, they’re always hidden behind his awesome anime shades in real life.

His voice is convincing though. Convincing enough to lure you right up to that window and into his grasp. He always asks you if you want to come inside before he snatches you up, and you always try -- desperately -- to say no. No, no, no, no, no -- but your mouth forms the word ‘yes.’ Every time.

The arms of the not-bro are colder than any popsicle you’ve had, and just as moist. It’s an unpleasant form of contact. He heaves you through the large open window and into the body of the truck. Inside it’s understandably frigid. There are colorful ice-lollies stacked and strung up around you -- forming a miniature frozen paradise. The not-bro plucks a bright pink ice cream bar from the wall as if picking it from a tree, and hands it to you. You’re fond of shades of red, and imagine the ice-cream is bubblegum flavored. When you stick your tongue out to taste it you’re not disappointed. It’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever had.

You open your eyes to discover the unnerving stare of the not-bro. He looks like he’s anticipating something. Always eagerly waiting for things to turn sour. Fur tickles your nose, and you look down at the half-finished ice-cream bar. The decaying paw of your long-dead cat Banshee is poking out of the softening dessert -- you recognize her orange coloring, so unusual for a female. Maggots squirm out from between crushed bones and putrid flesh. Banshee had been fooling around near an open window and inexplicably lost her balance -- even as a child you are convinced that bro’s odd puppets had something to do with it.

The cat-paw is the trigger. You begin to vomit uncontrollably, heaving the contents of your stomach onto the floor of the truck, melting some of the accumulated frost. It’s an alarming shade of acid-yellow. In the dream, it doesn’t matter that you haven’t had anything to eat aside from half a bar of ice-cream. Once you’re sent into the fit of unholy illness, you cannot stop puking. 

You heave violently, the not-bro watching you with a malicious smile. When the yellow-liquid subsides, you begin to cough up your internal organs. Chunks of your lungs come up first -- and oh no, no, you should have said no -- it’s all candy-apples. Next comes your stomach, landing on the floor with a wet smack. You watch it pulse and die for a moment before you’re rejecting your intestines. They’re nothing but fresh gum-paste, spilling out of you into wet, curdled heaps. 

Your young mind does not have the capacity to imagine what all of it should feel like, but the pain you’ve felt from years of past flu-seasons and food-poisoning is enough for your brain to work with. The sensation is amplified as much as possible, and in the dream you faint, only to wake up in your bed drenched in sweat that you should be too young to produce in such quantities. You cannot run to your brother’s room and snuggle up to him. All you’ll be able to see in him for the rest of the week is the not-bro. You turn your head to the side and feel your heart throw itself against your ribcage brutally. 

Little Cal sits in the corner, watching you with those eyes that usually seem so cold and dead. Right now, for whatever reason, they are warm. Comforting. 

You extend a small and hesitant hand toward the puppet, and when nothing bad happens, you pull him under the covers with you, wrapping his noodle-arms around your quivering shoulders. 

He helps you fall into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

Years later, after you manage to swipe some of Bro’s whiskey, you find yourself drunk enough to tell John about your most prominent childhood nightmare. He surprises you by mailing a mixed tape of his personal favorite movie-based lullabies to your apartment. They’re all terribly campy, but so wonderfully benevolent that you can’t help but be un-ironically warmed by the gesture. 

For a while, you even forget about the nightmare. After all, you stopped actually having it when you were nine. 

You’re completely caught off-guard when it suddenly returns. It’s been months since John sent you the mixed tape, and you’ve slept with it quietly running every night since then. 

Nevertheless, you’re back in the ice-cream truck. This time, you notice the world outside the large window. The wet, pink licorice brains dripping down from the glucose- apocalypse sky. You attempt to exit the truck, tugging frantically at the locked door. The driver is missing, but your instincts tell you he’ll be back soon. A moment later, after you try rattling the lock on the window and throwing yourself against the tinny walls, a clicking noise comes from the door. You’ve wasted precious energy stupidly attempting to break through the dream-tin and now you’re too exhausted to overpower him before he’s inside, securing the lock. 

He turns to you with a smile. It’s not bro, of course -- but this time, it doesn’t even adopt his appearance. Instead, John stares down at you with eyes that are more accurate than bro’s ever were. In fact, the creature has perfected John’s image. You feel the need to vomit, but resist it -- there will be enough of that soon.

John -- you can’t seem to call him not-John, the illusion is too flawless -- sits down beside you. When you try to shuffle away from him, your back meets frozen metal. The ice melts upon contact with your fevered body and soaks into your flimsy shirt.

“Hey Dave.”

He kneels besides you. You haven’t heard John speak yet, but you’re sure that even the voice is a perfect match. It sounds friendly, light-hearted -- as if it doesn’t have a hidden agenda, which of course, it does.

“Hey.” 

You reply numbly. There is no reason for you to lose your cool, especially now that you’re trapped. The creature can run you through it’s old shit for all you care. You’re not going to make it too fun.

“It’s awesome to actually get to meet you. Too bad it’s so cold in here.” He chuckles innocuously. 

“Yeah, it’s cold. We’re in an ice-cream truck, dipshit.” 

You don’t let your voice become too hostile, despite your words. There is a tendency within you to become angry when you’re scared. The monster likely knows this, as it’s spun from your own mind. No point in giving it the satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah. About that...” John begins, looking shy and goofy and all those other things you like about him, “How about you try some of my ice-cream.”

“You made it? What the fuck kind of ice-cream man does that?”

He rolls his eyes at you and grins. “I do, jerk-face. Come on, give it a shot.”

You’re prepared for the worst. This is the part where you lick your dead cat’s disembodied limb, vomit your guts up, and die. It’ll be painful and disgusting, as usual. John hands you the ice-cream. It’s not pink, but electric blue -- like his eyes, and wow, that was a inappropriately romantic thought considering you’re harboring it for a dream monster wearing the flesh of your best friend.

John is patiently holding the ice-cream toward you with an easy smile; but there’s an edge to his expression that you can’t quite decipher.

You accept the ice-cream. Might as well get it over with and wake up. Take some fucking sleeping pills next time, and ask bro to hit you over the head with the blunt end of a shitty sword so that you’re too brain-dead to dream. 

“Okay, okay. I’m going for it. Gonna eat this fucking ice-cream and then wake up and you won’t be seeing me after that.”

There’s a mildly dejected expression on his face, and you almost regret your harsh words -- until you remember how much puking up your own intestines sucks. Best get down to it. You take a reproachful lick of the brilliant blue desert and it sinks into your tongue. The flavor is so pure and stimulating that you cannot begin to imagine how rank the cat fur will taste in comparison.

“How is it?” He asks you, shuffling closer with all the subtlety of a flaming rainbow.

“It’s decent, but I’m thinking the dead-cat-sprinkles to come are gonna overpower the delicate aroma or whatever.”

John sticks his tongue out in playful disgust. “Dead-cat-sprinkles? Nice, Dave. Remind me what you’re talking about again.” 

He takes the unfinished ice-cream from your apathetic fingers and presses it insistently against your lips before you can respond. Your body is warm -- dubiously so -- and the sweet chill of the ice-treat is seductive. It’s completely devoured before you even have time to contemplate your actions. 

No cat paw. 

“Keep going!” John encourages you as he plucks a couple more down. He is careful to offer you only the blue ones.

You’re in rapture, unaware of how your body is changing.

John is behind you, and you don’t remember when he moved, but you’re too distracted by the way his arms are wrapped around your waist to feel skittish. 

“Electric blue, huh?” He mutters into your ear; hot breath tickling the oversensitive skin flirtatiously. You press your back against him. It’s pathetic. So much for staying cool.

Each bar retains the same flavor as the previous one, but is somehow better. John’s crotch is pressed against your backside. It doesn’t feel like some sort of grotesque monster-junk. His hand dips lower on your stomach and you instinctively buck forward, meeting plush resistance. This is not quite enough to free you from the stupor. It is mildly frustrating though, and you’re not sure why.

“Don’t slow down yet. You’re almost done!” John whispers attentively as he plucks the last five bars down and hands them to you one by one.

You must have eaten at least fifty already, but, you reason with yourself; that simply isn’t possible. That much substance would have popped your stomach wide open. You are experiencing a nightmare -- your essential dream-nemesis. If your stomach truly faced the threat of rupturing, it would have a while ago. 

The last bar dangles in front of you, stick pinched firmly between John’s index finger and thumb. 

“Make sure you don’t waste any, okay?” He reaffirms in a sinless tone of voice.

You give him a captivated nod, sucking the ice-cream clean off the stick while he holds it up for you. Whenever it dribbles down the sides and onto his smooth fingers you are sure to do a thorough job of lapping them clean. He is cool, and wet.

That’s what breaks the trance. John tastes too sweet; and he is absolutely frozen. The real John would be warm, you’re sure of it.

You obediently devoured all the ice-cream he offers you, like some sort of puppet. Now the results are slowly coming into focus. The first thing you notice is that you’re stuck. You try to rock forward and stagger to your feet using the momentum, but it’s hopeless. There is too much flesh imprisoning you. 

John laughs cruelly, and the last vestiges of boyish charm melt away. 

“Wow,” He purrs malevolently. “You’re so big.” 

“That’s an understatement, dude.” You’re back to playing it cool -- it’s the only thing that’s preventing you from losing your mind. 

There’s just so much of you. So suddenly.

John’s glacial fingers return, and this time they linger audaciously on your bare skin -- your clothes are lying around you in dreary tatters. 

“You’re like putty in his hands, you know that?” 

He shakes your ponderous belly for emphasis, reveling in the sumptuous quiver of your pale, velvety flesh. 

“It’s not the same with Jade or Rose. You probably don’t even care as much about what Bro thinks of you. It’s always just John now.” 

You wish you could ignore him -- all of the things he’s saying, all that he’s pulling up from the dingy mire of your subconscious. It’s coming to the surface, and you just can’t bring yourself to punch that particular face. Not that you’d be able to physically. Your limbs are heavy; pinned to your sides by the sheer abundance of fat.

Panic oozes through you. He’s got you at his mercy.

There’s another concept nagging at you as well. What if you wake up this way? It’s a profoundly stupid thing to worry about, as it’s completely impossible, but...what if?

“Let me wake up.” You have to know -- have to escape.

“Aw, but I wanted to keep you.” He pouts, slipping a hand under the folds of flesh on your abdomen; searching. 

You both freeze for a moment when he finds what he’s looking for. He smirks victoriously; you can feel the mean-spirited expression form against your back as he rests his head on you. You’re having trouble breathing, and you’re not sure if that’s safe for someone of your size, but wait. It’s still just a dream. He’ll have to let you go eventually.

John fondles one of your massive love handles as he massages your groin, bringing you shamefully close to orgasm. It’s your first one, and you’re not sure what to expect, as you’ve only ever read dumb stories and one wikipedia article about it. One thing is for certain; you couldn’t have found a more loathsome environment in which to experience your first orgasm if you made a concentrated effort.

You stop thinking once the pleasure starts to build. John -- no, the monster wearing his face -- has shifted the position of his other hand to abuse your breast, harshly twisting a nipple and eliciting an oddly positive response from you. You’re about to tumble off the edge of something.

John’s lurid whispers fade away. He’s gone, and you’re sliding haphazardly off the side of your bed, tangled in the sheets. You’re earnestly erect and desperate to assuage the savage ache. The hand you haven’t utilized below searches frantically for your torso. You find a good couple inches of new plush fat, riding out the searing seconds of your resulting orgasm.

Your breath is labored yet you’re able to move freely. That’s important -- freedom is everything. 

“Fuck.” You mutter to yourself, praying to the not-so benevolent forces of the Universe that Bro didn’t hear you. 

The inches of extra flesh clinging to you are a dreadful promise -- an indication of the proposed future -- and a warning.

You never tell John.


End file.
